Ann Purser - Threats At Three

“Well done, Kate!” He came across and helped her move the pushchair between the tables.

“She’ll stay in her chair,” she said, as he began to undo the straps that held Cecilia in. She had already planned a quick getaway after she had said her piece. She sat down and glared at Froot. Let him make the first move. He offered her the menu, and asked what she fancied to drink.

“Water, thanks. Tap water.”

“And Cecilia?”

“I’ve got her drink in my bag.”

“Right, now what will you both have to eat. I’ve been looking forwards to this meeting for days!”

“I’ll have a pizza, and Cecilia can have some of it. She doesn’t eat much at lunchtimes, and still has an afternoon sleep.” She had worked this out as a useful time limit on their meeting. His next remark, oh so casual, scuppered this.

“I thought we might have a stroll in the park after lunch,” he said. “Cecilia will probably drop off as we go. I seem to remember my young ones were always lulled to sleep by movement. Car, pushchair, train. Quite useful, really, when they were bored on journeys.”

Anyone overhearing this conversation would think it the most natural thing in the world, thought Kate. A young mother and her child, with maybe an uncle or father, even, meeting for a pleasant lunch. If that was all, fine, but the new suggestion of a walk in the park was not so pleasant. Anything could happen. It was a big park, and there were always deserted paths through tall shrubbery areas.

“Something wrong, Kate? You look a bit alarmed. I’m not planning anything harmful, you know. Nor am going to ravish you behind the bushes! Not this time, anyway, and not in front of an infant. No, I asked you here for a talk, and mostly about your wayward husband.”

“What do you mean, ‘wayward’? The only other girl he’s ever looked at has been Cecilia!”

“Not wayward in that sense. Do relax, Kate. This is a very preliminary talk. Ah, here’s our drinks.” He downed half his glass of red wine in one gulp, and then said that Gavin had been wayward in not fulfilling a bargain that he had with Froot, and this was not satisfactory.

“Nothing to do with me,” said Kate. “And if I had my way, we’d be rid of you for good. I personally would be happy never to set eyes on you again.”

Tim Froot put back his large head and hooted with laughter. Two women at the neighbouring table looked across and joined in the laughter, nodding approval. How nice to see the little family enjoying themselves! Even the little girl was chortling with delight.

“That’s how I like my women,” Froot said. “Good and feisty. A real challenge.”

“I’m going,” said Kate, putting down her glass of water.

Froot’s tone suddenly changed. “No, you’re not,” he hissed. “Stay exactly where you are, and smile.”

Kate subsided back into her chair, but did not smile. Oh my God, she whispered to herself in panic. Why did I come? What is he going to do? Then common sense took over. What could he do, right here in a crowded café? She would have to tell him what she had rehearsed and then leave, regardless of what he might say. He could do nothing.

“Now,” he said, “listen to me, Kate Adstone. Your husband is deeply in debt to me. His part of the bargain was to wreck all chances of restoring your pathetic village hall, and instead to persuade the oafs on the parish council to go for the rebuild option. He did not do this. Not only that, but he now appears to be determined to wreck plan B, which was to make sure the soap box grand prix will be a financial disaster. It will be closed down on the night before the event. By the police, of course, who I understand have not been consulted. You can’t just organise this kind of thing without consulting them, you know. Gavin is to see that this happens, at the last minute, of course, to cost the organisers the most possible trouble in terms of money and disappointment. You are to see he does that, Kate. Otherwise, I shall take steps to make your marriage unbearable. A total disaster. Oh yes, don’t interrupt. I can do it. You can be sure of that.”

He sat back in his chair and smiled again. The pizzas arrived, and Kate cut up small pieces to feed to Cecilia. Her head was reeling. Most of what Froot had said was a complete surprise. But one odd thing occurred to her.

“But why do want the village hall rebuilt? Surely not a job for contractors of your size?”

“Not just the village hall, Kate. It would be a package, taking in the playing fields. Lots of lovely executive dwellings for young families with children to play with Cecilia. And before you ask, I shall of course make sure alternative playing fields are provided.”

“But even so,” she protested, “it could only be a small development compared with your usual projects. There’s another reason, isn’t there?”

“That’s where the bargain comes in,” Froot said, leaning forwards confidingly. “When Gavin brings off his part of the assignment, I have promised to waive the debt and make a place for him at the top of my team. He’s a clever lad, Kate, as I’m sure you know. I want him back.” And his wife, too, if possible, he thought, but kept that to himself.

“You must be mad,” Kate said. “Gavin is no performing monkey! He has principles and a mind of his own. We’ll pay off your rotten loan, if it takes everything we’ve got.”

“Everything?” said Froot, and now his smile was slimy.

Kate shivered. “Come on, Cecilia,” she said, standing up, glaring at him. “We’re off home. And don’t send your disgusting heavy round to intimidate me again, or I’ll be the one going to the police. And not to shop the soap box lot! I’ll see you in jail, Tim Froot, if you put one more foot wrong. We’ll make regular payments until we’re clear of you and everything to do with you.”

She turned her back on him and pushed Cecilia out of the café and walked as fast as she could along the crowded pavement, away from the worst half hour of her life.

OVER THE OTHER SIDE OF TOWN, IN THE SMALL TERRACE OF houses by the canal, Froot’s faithful henchman was slumped in front of his sister’s television. They were watching her favourite soap, and he was nearly asleep. Then his mobile rang, and when he saw who was calling he ran into the kitchen, slamming the door.

“Hello, boss? How’s life?”

“Shut up!” said Tim Froot. “Listen carefully, you idiot. I shall say these instructions only once, so get it right. If anything goes wrong this time, you’re a dead man. Perhaps floating gently past your sister’s house in the murky canal? No, that’s too good for you. So just listen.”

FATHER RODNEY HAD DRIFTED AROUND TRESHAM, BUYING things he didn’t really need but passing the time until the bus to Farnden returned. He was early back at the bus station, and looked round, vaguely hoping that Kate and Cecilia would also be in time. They were nowhere to be seen, and in due course the bus was almost full. The driver climbed into his seat and started the engine.

“Hey, wait a minute!” a woman called from the rear of the bus. “A woman with a baby is coming! Wait a minute, driver!” she repeated.

Fortunately, the driver was the good-humored one who usually drove this bus on a Saturday. He nodded, and opened the doors again. Father Rodney got up from his seat and rushed to help Kate aboard, taking the pushchair from her and stowing it, and then sitting the two of them down next to him. “You made it, then,” he said calmly. He supposed it was the dash for the bus that had caused Kate to look so upset and shaky, and when Cecilia tried to climb on to his lap, he lifted her up gladly.